


Rosemary and Tea and the Smell of Home

by Norma_de_Plume



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dream Sex, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mutual Pining, No blankets were actually harmed in this story, Scents & Smells, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Sleep talking, Some things are hard to clean, Tea, Wet Dream, sherlock's hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 14:06:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18389927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Norma_de_Plume/pseuds/Norma_de_Plume
Summary: John returns from an unsuccessful date to a darkened flat. Add one sleep-talking consulting detective and you get...well,  WHAT exactly??Wait.Did Sherlock just call out, "Jooohhhnn...." in his sleep?Well then. This promises to be more entertaining than takeaway and crap telly, that's for sure.





	Rosemary and Tea and the Smell of Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Addigni](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Addigni).



> An embarrassingly long time ago on Tumblr, I drunkenly asked for Johnlock prompts from out in the void. Addigni gave me a lovely one which I promptly stewed over for so long, that I forgot about it. 
> 
> I saw the 221B Consolation 2019 Collection and decided to make good on their kind notion and finish the damned thing. 
> 
> Addigni suggested that John comes home to a sleep-talking Sherlock moaning out John's name. Whatever will he do...
> 
> Thanks for the kick, sweetie. Here you go, wherever you may be out there...Enjoy.

John trudged up the stairs to 221B heavily from a date night had not gone well. The woman in question was a week off of a long term relationship break-up and John felt compelled to “Aww,” and “you did the right thing,” and “don't lose faith,” at her the entire evening. He had ordered her tea after the meal in an attempt to be compassionate and then felt obligated to stay and commiserate with her as she sniffed, dried her eyes, patted his arm, and thanked him for being “kindly” and for listening. She had smiled wanly and left, sniffling softly.

 

‘It’s like a curse,’ he thought, sighing wearily. He was exhausted and felt dirty in a cloying and tooth-rotting sort of way. A shower was definitely in order.

 

Dammit. Why did this sort of thing always seem happen to him? The old adage, “Nice guys finish last” seemed to be his own personal bad luck tag-line. His heart just wasn't in this anymore.

 

The flat, upon entering, was dark and strangely still. John stopped to sigh and breathe in the comforting smell of home. Whiffs of formaldehyde, tea, Indian takeaway, rosin, burnt toast, and a hint of rosemary and soft musk all assaulted him like an over-eager fifteen year old boy with a can of pheromone body spray.

 

Rosemary. Sherlock's body wash. John inhaled deeply and let his mind wander and free associate a bit. Rosemary - Clean. Woodsy. Crisp. A tad mysterious. The smell made his skin prickle in odd, edgy anticipation. It suited the man well. It garnered response. No, more than that. DEMANDED it. Far be it from John to resist in the face of such a heavily armoured adversary, it would seem.

 

John cleared his throat uneasily.

 

_Christ. Get a hold of yourself. Don't be pathetic._

 

John lifted his nose delicately. That resinous and sweet scent of Sherlock was present nearby. He squinted into darkness and tried to discern the disorienting shapes that leapt out at him as he scanned the sitting room.

 

“Hnnnngg….”

 

An immediately recognisable baritone growled from the depths of the living space.

It seemed to be coming from the sofa.

 

John made his way cautiously across the room, hands out in front of him like a game of Blind Man's Bluff.

 

_Why the hell hadn't he turned on the lights when he came in?_

 

He hadn't wanted to disturb Sherlock.

 

Naturally.

 

Sherlock could disrupt anything he damned well chose, but heaven forbid if John prevented the free-flow of Sherlock’s own brand of chaotic entropy.

 

Ow. Shit.

 

His knee ran into the coffee table - that was going to bruise. His eyes reluctantly were adjusting to the darkness as he moved forward. The amorphous shape on the sofa was indeed Sherlock who seemed to be sleeping fitfully.

 

John watched as a long limb pulsed, a keen nose lifted and twitched as if to scent the the air. A quick flick of a clever tongue wetted that perfectly shaped mouth…

 

_Perfectly shaped mouth?_

 

It was definitely time for him to be getting some sleep. John rubbed his eyes with a measure of aggravation and turned to grab the blanket from his chair to cover Sherlock when it happened.

 

Sherlock took a deep breath into his lungs and threw his arms over his head in a graceful yet careless fashion. He arched his long, sinuous spine and hummed low and deep.

 

“You’re here. Put it right there. Mmmm... oh, yes. Right there….”

 

John felt the low pulse of his stomach flopping and the flutter of his heart in his throat.

 

_What the hell was the man on about?? That sounded damn well pornographic._

 

John shuddered at the frankly astonishing noises and words that had been pulled from the apparently sleep-addled and dreaming form of Sherlock Holmes.

 

John whipped his head back now to the sounds of Sherlock now slowly sucking the tips of his dexterous violin-playing fingers in between those full lips.

 

“Yeeeess, Nnngh. Sooo warm. Is it ready? You try. Please...more.  Yes, oh...Oh, god yes…”

 

John's eyes widened in alarm. There was no doubt that he had walked on his flatmate in the midst of a scorching-hot sex dream.

 

John was, of course, fatally embarrassed at this dreadful faux pas. All the same, right in the middle of that muddled, shamed guilt, John felt a bizarre twinge of heated jealousy. Possessiveness. He twisted his mouth ruefully and huffed out an exasperated sigh.

 

_Back the fuck out of here now, Watson._

 

John bit his lip in distraction and carefully began to turn from the room.

 

Sherlock rolled his body wantonly again and drew one arm across his t-shirt clad chest with a feathery touch.

 

“That’s sooo good...More now. But...but..Yesss...Oh, god, pleeease…”

 

John halted in his tracks. He was less than a foot away from Sherlock and yet it felt like mere inches. Or miles.

 

Either way, he needed to retreat NOW.

 

Funny how his legs had suddenly become completely immobile. And that heat on his cheeks and ears was spreading. Then a faint twitching of his groin...

 

 _WARNING... WARNING... WARNING_...

 

Sherlock slid his right hand slowly down his own abdomen and right over the space that John could barely make out in the darkness between his legs and groaned deliciously.

 

“Ohhh, yes...YEssss...Jooohhhnn…”

 

_JOHN????_

 

John nearly fell over backwards onto his arse in his panic to back-peddle the fuck away from the increasingly vocal man writhing on the sofa. He tossed the blanket in Sherlock's general direction and hoped it made it onto his body and concealed it in some capacity. He hoofed it out of the sitting room, up the stairs to his room where he closed the door hastily behind him and threw his back against it trying make himself breathe normally again.

 

_Dear Lord. What was he going to do about THIS?_

 

John hardly slept at all that night. Every time he felt himself drifting off to sleep, he would find his hand drifting down towards the drawstring of his own pajamas, the sounds of Sherlock’s moans echoing in his head.

 

 _Fuck_.

 

He really WAS going to kill Sherlock for this.

 

\-----

 

John forcibly hauled himself into the kitchen the next morning, resolutely refusing to look to see if Sherlock was still sprawled out on the sofa. Water was boiled, tea was steeped. He reached to grab the bread to make toast when a low, gravelly voice breathed into his ear right behind him.

 

“Do you have anything for me, John?”

 

John shivered at the words and the sensation of heat rippling off of Sherlock’s looming form. Directly behind him. Nearly pressed up against him, right there behind him. He gripped the countertop tightly and tried to screw his eyes shut to block the cascade of images that now ran unchecked through his brain.

 

...Sherlock wrapping an arm across his chest and slowly snaking the other down to rub teasingly at John's growing arousal... That perfect mouth grazing the shell of John's ear, sliding a moist, hot path down the side of his neck before attaching itself to the sensitive spot that made him weak and pliant right where he could feel his own pulse pounding…

 

John slammed both hands down on the counter and bolted from the kitchen, a muttered, “Just take mine,” thrown in Sherlock's direction without looking. “I've got to get to work anyway.”

 

John dressed without even taking a shower or brushing his teeth. He flung himself down both sets of stairs, forced out a cursory goodbye and got all the way to the clinic before he realized he hadn't even gotten breakfast.

 

It was not a good day.

 

Again.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock frowned at the retreating back of his flatmate. This morning was proving to be most unusual.

 

He had awoken loose-limbed and content even though he belatedly realized he wasn't in his bed. He could have sworn that he had collapsed in his room sometime during the night, but apparently that memory was faulty.

 

Hadn't John come in to check on him when he got home? He felt as though he vaguely remembered hearing him crash about a bit before retiring. He had wanted to tell John to stop disturbing him but then felt a brief pang of guilt at recalling waking up with a blanket around him that he hadn't procured himself. John must have kindly put it on him. He really had gotten it tangled around himself as well - he had managed to wrap it around his chest and legs in such a way that it had partially pulled his pajamas right off of him and rucked his sleep shirt up into his armpits.

 

He MUST have inadvertently fallen asleep on the sofa after all. Sherlock was still faintly puzzled as to how he felt so agreeable now after waking in such an awkward position.

 

Notwithstanding the matter of John's rather uncharacteristic behaviour this morning.

 

Sherlock plucked John's mug of tea from the counter and headed down the hall to take a shower, his brain fully engaged on this new development on John's part.

 

He had been edgy and manic and hadn't wanted to meet Sherlock's eye. He curtailed his usual morning ablutions and left hardly uttering a word. Fascinating.

 

_Why was that fascinating?_

 

The fragrance that wafted up from the mostly warm liquid in his cup triggered something as he frowned in concentration. This was John’s usual morning Earl Grey. He typically only made it for himself as Sherlock preferred a heavier blend or coffee upon rising.

 

A memory emerged. He had been dreaming last night.

 

Dreaming about tea of all things. In a warm grassy spot. A sunny, breezy meadow bursting with heather and beebalm and other wildflowers. He was reclining on a blanket languidly and he recalled breathing it all in and the feeling of serenity and pleasure.

 

John had suddenly been sitting there too; He handed him a cup of the citrusy, floral brew and smiled softly at him.

 

“Let's make sure it isn't too hot for you, Sherlock.”

 

John leaned forward, neatly dipped his fingers into Sherlock's cup, and then held his tea-soaked fingers to Sherlock's lips to sample.

 

Sherlock lost himself for a moment, immersed the vivid sensory burst he had just received.

 

_I sucked tea from John Watson's fingers and it was ridiculously good._

 

Fascinating _._

 

\-----

 

Sherlock struggled on and off the remainder of the day trying to recall the rest of the details of the dream. When he finally ventured out to the sitting room, he tsked at the state of the sofa.

 

Of course _he_ had made the mess. The cushions were askew and John's plaid blanket was a twisted and rumpled wadded-up ball on the floor. He scooped it up, gave it a flick of his wrists to straighten it, and then froze upon inspection.

 

Oh.

 

Well. THAT hadn't happened in quite some time.

 

A very long time.

 

Sherlock wondered if he could salvage the blanket without having to consult with Mrs Hudson about the washing machine.

\-----

When John returned home that evening, he was laden with bags. He had felt vaguely guilty for his rude exit from the flat this morning and very foolish at his body's own rogue reaction to last night's events.

 

He had resolved to firmly ignore it all and simply venture forth. What purpose could it possibly serve? He had gotten some Italian takeaway from Angelo's and a couple of bottles of wine that were inexpensive enough, but still drinkable. Hopefully Sherlock wouldn't fixate on that and just eat.

 

Sherlock was perched on his chair, fingers folded in his thinking posture.

 

“I got us dinner, Sherlock,” John called out as he entered the flat and crossed into the kitchen to set everything down on the counter. “Wash up and I'll open this bottle to have with.”

 

John rummaged through a drawer in search of a corkscrew.

 

Sherlock didn't move.

 

“C'mon, Sherlock. Get in here and help me,” John chided, the irritation level in his voice rising somewhat.

 

Sherlock stalked reluctantly into the kitchen. He pulled the boxes from the bags and peeked into everything more for his own edification than to be actually helpful. Angelo had tucked in a package of warm focaccia in a bag all on its own. Sherlock eagerly ripped it open and the piney, garlicky smell enveloped the kitchen.

 

John, still struggling with the corkscrew, turned at the smell, eyes closed, reeling slightly at the smell that he so keenly associated with his flatmate.

 

Sherlock perked up immediately.

 

“Ah, Angelo knows how much I adore this. He does not make it very often. The rosemary and garlic are at perfect counterpoint to the sweet notes of the yeast dough. Here. You must try some now while it is still at the ideal temperature.”

 

Sherlock pulled off a hunk of the bread and presented it to John as if he just expected John to take it straight from his fingers.

 

Those long, flexible fingers that John had seen, just last night, being pulled into Sherlock's lush and hungry mouth and sucked and licked…

 

_Fuck fuck fuck. WHY had he thought about that again??_

 

“John. HERE. Open.”

 

Sherlock was still right there in front of him, bread hovering centimetres from John's lips, urging him on.

 

John snatched the offering from Sherlock and defiantly fed it to himself.

 

It tasted as sumptuous as it smelled. Yeasty and sharp, with the tang of the garlic and the damnable rosemary.

 

John grabbed two plates, served the food,  and shoved them both in Sherlock's hands.

 

“Take these and go sit. I'll bring the wine,” John grumbled testily.

 

The meal went down beautifully. The pasta was lovely and the wine complemented everything with its simplicity. John felt mellow and much more content with the world in general afterwards. Sherlock actually ate a good portion of his meal and most of the bread. John rose to grab the last box that he had kept hidden from Sherlock.

 

“Ooh, John. Tiramisu. You ARE a prince among men, you know.”

 

John flushed with the praise. He tried to hide his response by thrusting a spoon into Sherlock's hand and gruffly muttered that he should eat more and talk less.

 

_Damn right I am. Don't you forget it either, Holmes._

 

Sherlock daintily scooped up a bite and presented it to John.

 

“Forgive me John, but I am feeling the most peculiar sense of deja vu,” Sherlock stopped, spoon poised at John's mouth.

 

Sherlock absentmindedly brought the rich spoonful into his own mouth and stood up to pace while he swallowed appreciatively.

 

“I've had the most peculiar dreams of late, John. I do believe a picnic was the feature in one I experienced last night,” Sherlock started monologuing then stopped abruptly.

 

“You came in late and must have covered me with your blanket...which I do appreciate,” Sherlock offhandedly threw out. “Did I seem distressed about being cold? Uncomfortable?”

 

“Humphh,” John snorted with derision as he got his own spoonful of tiramisu.

 

Sherlock spun around and sharply locked an intense glare at John.

 

“Problem?”

 

John’s expressive face did at least three or four different things at once and they all battled for dominance in their display. He looked both embarrassed and angry and rather flushed all at once. There was also a hint of, “Oh, God, why do we have to do this NOW,” about him. It was disturbing, but nonetheless, rather impressive.

 

John continued to shovel dessert into that face while not quite meeting Sherlock's intense stare.

 

“Oh, I'd say you were pretty damned comfortable when I came in,” he snidely said around a mouthful of custard. “You really need to just go to your own room for that sort of thing you know, mate.”

 

Sherlock was genuinely perplexed.

 

“Explain.”

 

John put his spoon down with a resigned sigh.

 

“Look,” he started testily. “I walked in and you were making noises like you were the star in a seriously filthy porno. Moaning and carrying on and wriggling about.” I threw the blanket at you and got the hell out.”

 

John stomped up, poured himself the last of the wine and met Sherlock's eyes for the first time with a proud glare.

 

Sherlock was aghast.

 

“John, you are being ridiculous. I distinctly recall dreaming about a picnic in a flower-covered meadow and having tea and scones and marmalade. YOU were even there,” he added with an accusatory shake of his hand, as if that made it all clear and above board.

 

John scooped up his wine glass and rose with a sense of finality.

 

“Fine, Sherlock. Whatever. But believe me, you were doing more in that dream that having a tea party. Now I'm going to bed. YOU clean up for a change.”

 

John strangely flushed again and marched upstairs. Sherlock sat indignantly and nearly missed his chair as a thought popped into his head.

 

_The blanket. Perhaps there WAS more to this. Where does that fit in?? Picnics and nocturnal emissions typically do not go hand in hand._

 

_Perhaps a poor choice of words there..._

 

\-----

 

Sherlock actually cleaned away the dinner dishes and leftovers and then claimed the remaining tiramisu as his reward. He took the container and his spoon to the sofa to ruminate on the disconnected bits of information that he had gathered thus far. He rolled the creamy concoction around his mouth thoughtfully and softly smiled at his fondness for these sorts of desserts.

 

Another flash of dream memory set upon him. Syllabub. They had tea and scones and a sinfully delightful lemon syllabub swirled with raspberry jam. Sherlock knew how much John enjoyed the fruity jam, so he always endeavored to include it in meals and treats as much as he was able to for him. Raspberries and John just went together. Just like tea and sunshine and the smell of damp wool and the faintly sweet and lingering scent of green herbs and the citrus tang of bergamot…

 

Well. There were apparently quite a few things that Sherlock associated with John.

 

 _Anyway_.

 

Syllabub. They had the pudding at the picnic, he recalled. He had fed John some from his spoon, just like he had nearly done tonight with the tiramisu and John was very appreciative, if memory served.

 

But that was all. He simply could not remember any more.

 

That decided it. Sherlock was never one for not knowing things. Particularly things in his own head. He grabbed John's blanket for warmth (though it seemed to be a bit smaller than he than had recalled in times past), breathed deeply, closed his eyes, and opened the door to his Mind Palace.

 

\-----

 

This was a corridor he seldom traversed, but it existed nonetheless.The door opened and the room was carefully lit to guide him to the soft leather theater chairs that faced the empty screen before them. There was a rather annoying sound of wind chimes in the distance and the rustle of the gauzy cloth draped around the edges of the large screen from an unsourced breeze. He knew that dreams held information, albeit rather twisted and convoluted snatches from his subconscious, but something of value might possibly be gleaned from their sometimes far-fetched nighttime presentations. Hopefully it would be bearable.

 

Sherlock settled comfortably in the reclining seat as the screen illuminated and images began to dance hazily across it.

 

The meadow, the picnic items spread out, tea tasted from John's fingertips -  it was all playing out before him and Sherlock leaned forward to catch all the details and nuances that he could.

 

“You are being very agreeable John,” he watched his dream-self demure to his flatmate. “Pass me the scones….the butter...the  marmalade...mmm try the syllabub... now kiss me…”

 

_Pardon???_

 

“Ohhh, yes...YEssss...Jooohhhnn...”

 

Well then. Apparently his subconscious self wasn't afraid of asking for what it wanted.

 

_Is that what he wanted?_

 

_John?_

 

Sherlock's eyes bolted open almost painfully and with a thumping of a nearly tachycardic heartbeat in his chest.  

 

John.

 

John with his soft jumpers and marmalade and that pervasive woodsy and citrus scented shampoo from Boots that he bought in bulk whenever it went on offer.

 

Sherlock was inundated with a flash of recent memory of entering the bathroom shortly after John had finished a shower. The air was still steamy and humid, heavy with the smell of herbal forest, citrus grove, and just JOHN. He smiled at how he could almost taste the aroma on his tongue and back of his throat now and it both soothed him and made him hard. That smell of John and of.., damn, what WAS it exactly?

 

Sherlock vaulted over the arm of his chair and strode quickly to the bathroom. He snatched the bottle from the shelf in the shower and flipped open the lid and inhaled.

 

Rosmarinus officinalis. Faintly under the pervasiveness of the lemon and artificial oversteeped tannin notes, but there.

 

Why had he never made that connection before? HIS body wash had a rosemary component to it, however blended with cardamom and lemongrass, that he had always found it soothing and sensual.

 

The essence of rosemary and tea, and the smell of...well, home. Or rather, his flatmate and best friend.

 

_Oh._

 

\-----

 

John stirred in his sleep uneasily as he became blearily half aware of an intrusion from the waking world. He could almost sense something. Nothing that required his immediate action like smoke or the acrid waft of chemicals from a dangerous experiment downstairs. But something that was just a bit out of place, but good. It seemed familiar - but just not in the usual context, here in his bedroom in the middle of the night...

 

He stirred again and was rewarded with the warm, heavy weight of his blankets as they  resettled themselves around him amidst the comforting presence. John sighed after a deep inhale and drifted back into sleep.

 

\-----

 

The light that streamed softly through his curtains puzzled John as he blinked himself awake.

 

_Hadn't it just been the middle of the night? He had been dreaming, hadn't he? Mmmm. Something smelled damn good. Like chai and pine..._

 

He breathed in deeply and attempted to stretch a bit when he realized his legs were a bit tangled up. With another pair of legs.

 

He sure as shit was awake now.

 

He froze as he did a quick assessment. Four legs.

 

Check.

 

His entire upper body wrapped around one bare-chested Sherlock Holmes as he honest-to-god _slept_ under most of John's body.

 

Yep.

 

John's nose buried in the base of an exposed pale neck, curls tickling his nose.

 

Oh, yes.

 

He was SO fucked.

 

_Evasive action?_

 

No. Wait. Let's see what HE does...

 

\-----

 

Sherlock awoke with a jolt. John's delicious weight had suddenly stiffened and he knew what that meant. John was also awake and aware.

 

_You started this. Follow through._

 

To his credit, John Watson was acting glacially cool about the entire situation. Or so his outward appearance might suggest that was so. He wasn't sniffing. He wasn't yelling. He wasn't flailing his limbs to push Sherlock out from under him

 

( _Hmm. Interesting that.)_

 

demanding an explanation as to why the bloody, buggery FUCK Sherlock was half naked in HIS BED.

 

Sherlock hazarded a greeting.

 

“Good morning, John. I trust you slept well?”

 

“Apparently quite well, Sherlock. You make for a rather comfortable sleep pillow, it would seem.”  

 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in consternation. This really wasn't going how he had hypothesized. John was being entirely too agreeable and he had a number of important, salient points to bring up in his defence.  

 

Sherlock wanted John. He knew that now.  In all honesty, that was one of the final points, but it was a damned important one. He wouldn't have snuck upstairs and slipped into John's bed at well past 2am otherwise. It was surprisingly easy to cosy up to the sleeping doctor. John had actually done all the work, rolled over and tucked Sherlock alongside his body and flung a proprietary arm and leg across him. He knew the shower and the bath gel had been the right decision when John stuck his nose in the crook of his neck and licked a long swipe of that infuriating tongue of his from the top of his upper trapezius to just shy of his left mastoid process. It ended with a soft, open mouthed kiss there and a tug of the sensitive earlobe a few centimetres up. Sherlock had shivered violently and did everything possible to calm his body's reactions and sleep. And wait.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat and prepared to field questions.

 

“I'm sure you are wondering what I'm doing here, John. I know it was a bit not good to just invade your space like…Um, John? Are you listening…?”

 

John had rolled into his side and propped his head up on his hand via a bent elbow. He toyed with Sherlock's curls around his face and then buried his hand into his scalp and tugged gently.

 

Sherlock momentarily lost focus as his brain was rapidly drained of blood in a mad dash for all hands on deck to regroup in a much more southerly region of his body.

 

He goggled at John incoherently. He might have moaned a little.

 

“I was trying to get you to understand something I have observed about the two of us,” he started again.

 

“Both of us seem to have a great affinity for the sense of smell. We find it pleasing and comforting and even arousing.”

 

Sherlock felt like he was gaining the high ground again and plowed on. John continued to stroke his scalp absently, but that couldn't be helped.

 

“Herbaceous scents, especially. I'm not really certain how it began but we seem to be locked in cycle of mutual olfactory stimulation and reaction. We each seem to be perpetuating it.”

 

John grinned slowly. It was an evil sort of grin and it made Sherlock's hair stand on end. John slid the hand that had been tangled in curls down his neck and gently across the narrow expanse of Sherlock's clavicle towards his sternum.

 

Sherlock felt his nipples tighten and become hard, flinty points.

 

'Yeah, I kinda noticed that a while back,” John entoned, his voice silky and low.” It does things to me. Has for awhile, if I'm honest. Especially on you. ”

 

John ducked his head and scraped his teeth across the sensitive erectile tissue closest to him. He sucked and swirled his tongue over it teasingly and released it with a gentle *pop*.

 

Sherlock arched up into John mouth. He quite felt that moment, John could easily make him achieve orgasm from Just. Doing. THAT.

 

_Oh, yesssssss_

 

John lifted his head up to meet Sherlock's eyes. He smiled gently and took a deep breath.

 

“Sherlock, at the risk of jumping in feet first, which I'm REALLY trying not to do, I have to be honest. You showing up here kind of forces the point. You mean more to me than anyone I've ever meet. Ever. And I'm damned serious  about that. You are a home I've never known and we fit. We just do. I can't imagine my life without you in it. I'm asking you now if you'd want to take that further?”

 

Sherlock gaped. He had had an entire debate structure and persuasive arguments concocted in his brain to gently ease John into acquiescing to the ahem, logic of, well, upping the game, as it were. He was prepared to play dirty. Perhaps that wouldn't be necessary…?

 

John patiently waited. He trailed his fingers in light circles over Sherlock's pectorals.  Privately he was sweating bullets. He desperately wanted Sherlock to say yes to pressing themselves together and rutting and tasting themselves into oblivion, but he still wanted Sherlock to know that this MEANT something to him. And he SO very much wanted it to mean the same thing to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock, still stunned at what he read in John's eyes, instinctively reached up and pulled John down and brushed his mouth across John's bottom lip.

 

John groaned into Sherlock's mouth, but held fast.

 

Sherlock pulled back and met John's gaze a second time.

 

“I love you too, John,” he whispered. “This means everything to me as well.”

 

John let out a broken cry and crushed their mouths together. They couldn't get close enough, although Sherlock had already wrapped his legs around John's waist and was actively trying to push his way through John's body. Their erections met and slid and the friction was almost achingly unbearable.

 

They fumbled out of pants and pajama bottoms, kissing and touching everywhere; their scents intermingled and heated the entire room into one great frenzy of molten desire and need.

 

John fumbled to reach the pull on the drawer of his bedside table.

 

Sherlock objected to the loss of that hand in his hair and retaliated by grabbing John's arse cheeks and ground himself up onto John.

 

_Holy fuuuck…oooh Sherlock..._

 

John's eyes crossed for a moment as he panted and desperately drew Sherlock's attention to what he now had in his hand.

 

“It was a freebie with the shampoo, “ John slurred.

 

Sherlock stopped his oral assault on John's neck long enough to attempt to focus on the label.

 

It was hand lotion. _Rosemary_ infused hand lotion.

 

“I really think you'll like it,” John grinned breathlessly.

 

Sherlock tipped his head back and out fell genuine laughter. John's face lit up and he joyously chimed in. They beamed at one another and held on tight.

 

Sherlock took advantage in the moment that followed and snicked open the bottle, twisted and flipped himself on top of John and coated his hand in the thick, fragrant emulsion.

 

He smoothed his slicked hand down John's stomach and eagerly grasped his cock and stroked it firmly from root to tip.

 

John gasped as if he had been nearly burned. Sherlock's hand felt so fucking good, sliding a blistering path up and down his shaft. Squeezing it and sending little bursts of woody aroma trails of rosemary-scented slickness up to their brains and effectively making them cease to function properly.

 

Sherlock went back to the open bottle a second time.

 

“Please, Sherlock... ooh Christ, yes ..yesss…Both of us, now... NOW…”

 

Sherlock did the one thing John had always wanted to see him do with those fingers. He wrapped them around both of their cocks, enclosing them tightly and _stroked._

 

 _“JAAAWWWNNNN…!!!”_  Sherlock howled. There was no other word to describe it. It was fucking glorious.

 

They hardly lasted a few more thrusts when John, without warning, suddenly rocketed off the edge and came violently in short, powerful bursts.

 

His ejaculate sped the way for Sherlock and with another two pumps, he was there - soaring as he spent all over John's chest and stomach.

 

“Ohhh, yes...YEssss...Jooohhhnn…”

 

They collapsed on to each other in satisfied, exhausted oblivion.

 

After a few blissful minutes, John kissed Sherlock softly and scooped up his pajama bottoms to give them a quick, cursory wipe-down.

 

Sherlock snuggled back into John's arms and they both dozed, the scent of their bodies together heavy and calming to them both.

221B was a safe cocoon around them and perhaps it always had been. Even since the time when it had just been, “Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other,” and “How could you possibly know that?”

 

Sherlock roused to the sensation of John caressing his arms and back with obvious affection. He was chuckling a bit to himself and Sherlock had to know what he found so amusing.

 

“How did we get here, Sherlock? It's a bloody miracle, honestly, “John softly mused. “You know I love you too, right? I think I always have.”

 

Sherlock nodded and signed happily.

 

“It's funny. Rosemary is supposed to be for remembrance - my gran always said that,” John mused. “Well, I for one won't ever forget this, you magnificent git.”

 

John smacked a soft kiss on Sherlock's shoulder as they relaxed, lost in their own thoughts and content in the shift their lives had just taken.

 

“Sherlock, I have to ask you, though,” John's voice intoned mellifluously as Sherlock tried to settle himself even more comfortably on John's warm chest.

 

He made a slightly questioning sounding noise against John's skin.

 

“Huuumph?”

 

“I couldn't help but notice the miniature placemat that is now on my chair. What the bloody hell did you do to my blanket??”

 

\-----

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm such a sucker for fluffy romance even when I'm trying to be a bit smutty. Ah, well. 
> 
> As both a tea fanatic and a gardener, I loved incorporating the powerful evocation of scent on our brains here. Go forth enjoy your favorite beverage and breathe in the feelings and aromas those smells bring to mind. 
> 
> Thank you for coming along for the ride, friends. 
> 
> NdP


End file.
